Lissie
I LISTEN TO the conversation at the table with half an ear, but my attention is captured by the man sitting at the bar.
A biker: too-long, dirty blond hair tied back at the nape of his solid neck, slightly darker beard, worn jeans, and an old T-shirt covering his large frame. He’s playing with a full shot glass, but only drinking from the tall glass.
Yuma.
He told me his name when I followed an investigative lead straight to the apartment building his motorcycle club owns and he manages. A stroke of luck, on more than one count, since it turned out to be a hot lead, but also had a vacancy sign on one of the apartment units. Since I was in dire need of some better digs than the trailer I’ve been renting month-to-month once I moved here, I inquired about it.
After jumping through some hoops to qualify, I finally signed the one-year lease yesterday. It was a bit of a momentous occasion; my first real place on my own. Odd, for a thirty-seven-year-old woman, I know. I moved into one of the cabins dotting my family’s ranch outside Albuquerque at twenty-four, and that’s where I stayed until a few months ago when life took a left turn.
When the conversation at the table turns to one of my colleagues, Tony Ramirez, moving his girlfriend, Blue, into his home, my ears perk up. Coincidentally I’m supposed to move this weekend as well, but when Blackfoot asks me if I’m in for Blue’s move, I tell him I’ll be there. It’s not like I have a ton to move myself. I can always bow out early and transfer my stuff in the afternoon or on Sunday.
When I look back to the bar, Yuma is gone, but the shot glass is still sitting there, untouched.
_______________
“Need a hand?”
My precarious hold on the queen-sized mattress I bought only two months ago slips, and it starts sliding back down the stairs. Given that the skies broke open in a late-afternoon summer downpour, I really don’t want my new mattress to end up in a puddle in the parking lot.
“I’ve got it.”
I still haven’t seen who’s attached to the deep voice, but I recognize it all the same. Yuma doesn’t talk much, but every time he does it has impact. I’ve been trying to find excuses to get a little friendlier with him, and this is the perfect opportunity.
“Thank you.” The bottom half of the mattress is suddenly lifted high and I can barely grab on to guide it through my front door.
“Keep going,” he grunts, when I go to set it down. In the bedroom, I drop my end on the hardwood floor. “Where’s the bed frame?”
“Haven’t gotten around to that yet. Just drop it on the floor for now.”
“You don’t have a bed?”
He drops the mattress and I finally get a look at him. He’s wet. As in, caught in the downpour kind of wet. It’s a good look on him, even though he’s making a puddle on my wood floors.
“Sure I do.” I point at the mattress.
He pulls up a dubious eyebrow, but then drops the subject.
“Where’s the rest of your shit?” he asks, already walking out of the apartment.
“Back of my truck.”
I motion in the general direction and he takes off down the stairs, calling over his shoulder.
“Stay there.”
“Yes, sir.” I almost salute his barked order but he’s not even looking at me.
It takes him half an hour to finish unloading the bed of the truck I had loaded high and covered with a tarp. When he walks up with the last of my boxes, he hands it to me but stays outside on the walkway, leaning against the door opening.
“Nice truck.”
“Thanks.”
I grin. I love my black, heavy-duty GMC Sierra. I bought that truck early this year when the old Ford pickup I’d been driving since high school finally gave up the ghost. My family thought it was ridiculous for a girl to buy a man’s truck, which only served as an incentive. Peter, the younger of my two older brothers, said some nasty shit, but what else is new? I can’t help he blows through his money like water and can’t afford one.
“Your friends couldn’t give you a hand?”
“I’m new to town. Haven’t made that many,” I confess with a shrug.
“Saw you at The Irish the other day, looked like a group of friends to me. They couldn’t help?” He pulls a do-rag from his back pocket and mops at his face, but keeps his eyes on me the whole time.
“I didn’t ask. They were busy today and besides, it’s not like I have a ton. I could manage.” I swear he snorts, but I can’t be sure since he has the bottom half of his face covered with his big hand. “I appreciate your help though,” I quickly add.
The only response I get is a grunt. Then he raps his knuckles on the doorway and with a chin lift, turns on his heel and heads down the stairs, disappearing under the overhang.
Okay, so nix the hot chocolate I was about to offer him. So much for a friendly conversation over a hot beverage.
It’s almost midnight by the time I have my sparse belongings put away and arranged the way I like them. The rain outside has stopped and I peek out the living room window to the river across the road. One of the many perks of this unit: hardwood flooring throughout, an updated kitchen complete with island, and a fabulous view of the Animas River.
The water is choppy and even by the light of the odd streetlight; I can see it streaming by. It reminds me of the creek running beside my old cabin back home.
I’m about to close the blinds when I hear an engine start up. A lone motorcycle crosses the parking lot and pulls out into the street. Its deep rumble still audible after the biker disappears from sight.
Yuma
I ride whenever temptation looms and it sure as fuck does tonight.
For the past three months, I’ve stayed in the small apartment off the office. I would sleep at the club, where I have a room, or at my place up the mountain, if I didn’t think being at either of those places would send me right back down the hole I’m just climbing out of.
Some days everything is a temptation, even a hot fucking cop.
That’s another thing I’ve gone cold turkey on—women. Or maybe I should say sex in general, since I’m afraid there were times I wasn’t that discriminate. Sex and booze have gone hand in hand since I was a teenager. Part of that was growing up in an MC, where morals were loose and the law wasn’t something we concerned ourselves with.
Things have changed in the past twelve or so years, since my dad handed Ouray the gavel. Fuck, was I pissed. I’d grown up the crown prince, thought my future was cemented by merit of my father’s reign over the club. I played it off as a responsibility I didn’t want—being president—but it stung.
Fuck that, it killed.
If I cared before, I certainly didn’t give a shit after. The knowledge expectations were low anyway; I didn’t even bother trying to change them. What was the point?
Momma got shot last year. Her body healed, but her mind started sliding. I got injured myself, not long after. The club was hit hard and everyone was pulling their weight to keep us afloat. Everyone except me, that is. I was too busy numbing myself with Jack and whatever else I could get my hands on.
Then one morning, I woke up and happened to catch the date on my phone. My birthday. My fortieth birthday. Fuck, when did that happen? My eyes were bloodshot in the bathroom mirror and I looked like death warmed over. Forty years old and I was fucking drinking myself into an early grave.
I got scared that morning four months ago. So scared, I drove myself to the club, still drunk, and asked for help. By nighttime, Trunk had me on a plane to Denver where I spent sixty days in an addiction treatment center. The worst part of getting sober is discovering how low you’ve really sunk.
Coming home had been fucking torture. Everyone eyeing you like any minute you were going to fall off the wagon. Careful with what they say around you. Fucking awkward as hell. I jumped at the chance to take over the Riverside Apartments, needing something to keep me busy. Nights are tough, though. Momma used to say idle hands are the devil’s playground; and I’ve never understood it as well as I do now.
I went to one AA meeting when I first came back, but sitting there, listening to everyone’s goddamn sob story, had only made me more depressed. I haven’t been back since.
Then the other night I found myself sitting at the bar at The Irish, ordering a shot. Fuck, that smell had my hands shaking. As some kind of personal challenge that I can lick this on my own, I kept that glass in front of me while asking for a glass of tap water on the side. I drank that. Then I spotted Detective Bucco sitting with a group of people, talking and laughing, and I knew if I didn’t get out of there I’d lose my battle of wills with that damn shot glass.
It’s so damn enticing to look for a hookup to keep the demons and loneliness at bay. That’s what had me jump on my bike tonight. Even the fresh-faced detective in unit twenty-four—not at all my regular type, which usually veers toward stacked and easy—is too much of a temptation.
The lights are still on at the clubhouse when I come through the gates. I’m not sure what I’m doing here, but I hope some brotherhood will do the trick.
Tse and Brick are sitting at the bar with a couple of beers. The moment Tse sees me coming in; he grabs both his and Brick’s bottles and tucks them away behind the bar.
“What the fuck is that all about?” I snap, annoyed.
“You don’t need to watch us drink, brother,” Tse says.
“You know what I don’t need? I don’t need my brothers to fucking tiptoe around me.”
“Good by me,” Brick says dryly, leaning over the bar to grab his beer, taking a deep swig.
“Asshole,” I grumble, pulling out a stool.
“You want something?” Tse asks when I sit down.
“Grab me a water, will ya?”
He tosses me a bottle and grabs fresh beers for him and Brick.
“So what are you doin’ out in the middle of the night. Hot date?” Tse nudges me.
“Fuck no. I was just bored.”
“Bored is bad,” Brick says, giving me the side-eye.
He’s about ten years older, and joined the Arrow’s Edge just last year. Decent guy, from what I can tell, although I haven’t had much opportunity to hang out with him. His comment is on point, though, and I wonder if he knows what that’s like.
“Very bad.”
“You going to meetings?”
I glare at him, about to launch a “What the fuck is it to you” at him when I catch myself. His gaze is steady and unwavering, dead serious. A quick glance at Tse shows him equally serious.
“No,” I bite off. “Went to one and that was enough. Not big on sitting in a circle, sharing sob stories, and singing fucking ‘Kumbaya.’”
Brick chuckles and takes a swig of his beer.
“More than one meeting in town, brother. Not all of them are in a church basement.”
“And you know this how?”
He shrugs. “You’re not the first alcoholic I know.”
I’m not an idiot, I know what I am—sixty days sobering up in a treatment center made sure of that—but hearing someone slap that label on me still doesn’t feel good.
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